acingly by an arm, with a grip that left no room for argument; and he was ordered to march between them to the Rookan Brae Fit, where he would find his carriage waiting to receive him!

His rage was furious. But he was as helpless as a Year Old Child in their grasp. He simply gnawed his tongue in baffled anger. Immediately they began to march, Moudie Jamie fell in behind, leading a Band of Twelve Rowdy Laddies, each with Tin-Kettle and Drumstick in hand, who struck up, and sang, and beat lustily what became famous in our annals as Gibbie's March. I fear, the truth compels me to admit that Jean Darumple hissed vigorously in the Doctor's face, as they marched past her door; and that the Miller was heard shouting vociferously in the Chorus, all the way to the foot of Hawk Hill! There they hoisted the Doctor ignominiously into his Trap, like a bundle of rags, and kept up the drumming and singing till his maddened horse tore out of sight.

In these times, somehow, the blame of all that took the shape of Rhyme fell on me. At any rate, I may as well here preserve the words. The Tune, I am told, was Moudie Jamie's,-especially invented to give expression to the hatred and the execration of Castlebraes.

Gibbie, gang Hame, an' hide yer shame,
Ye dirty Loon, frae Lonnon Toun,
We'll mak' ye quake for Fanny's sake,

Wi' hiss an' hoot, we drum ye oot,

Man, Wean, an' Wife, we curse your life,-
God mak' ye quake for Fanny's sake,

Auld Castlebraes her scorn displays,
Wean, Wife, an' Man, yer life we ban,—
Death mak' ye quake for Fanny's sake,

Wi' hiss an' hoot, we spue ye oot,
Man, Wife, an' Wean, we shout-Begane!
Hell mak' ye quake for Fanny's sake,

Next week witnessed a far other spectacle. The Funeral of Sister Fanny broke through all traditions. It is still rehearsed with wonder, and a kind of holy joy, by the Villagers of Castlebraes.

Lady Hetty gave the inspiration; but, I must confess, it was to me a pure though melancholy joy to back all her plans, having a rooted aversion to the usually dreadful and meaningless ceremonial at the interment of our dead.

First of all, every Man, Woman, and Child, for many miles around, came to the Funeral. Every unmarried Girl was, at Lady Hetty's expense, clothed in snowy white; and every Child was instructed to carry in hand a favourite flower, or leafy branch, or fruit. The Men all attended too, but, on this occasion, they held a very secondary place. They brought the Bier to The Cottage door; but the Women, who loved her most, with Lady Hetty and Angell Jenn, and the Miller's Leddy, and Jean Darumple, in the forefront, bore out the Coffin. It was a surprise to those who had heretofore seen only the ugly, black, lugubrious Box for the Dead, which the Undertakers supply. It had been painted pure marble white, by Lady Hetty's loving hands, with here and there lines of gold, to enrich the effect; and a great Cross of Gold on the top, in the

centre of the Lid, with only these words painted underneath—“ Asleep in Jesus."

Two of the selected Mothers then held up their Wee-est Tots, who each deposited a lovely bunch of the finest flowers of the season, alike from the Garden and the Wildwood, on the Coffin, one at the head, and the other at the feet, of their beloved. From the one hung the motto, painted on white silk ribbon, "Weep not for me"; and from the other, the motto, "I live."

Then began the Procession to the Village Kirk Yaird. Lady Hetty marshalled the whole of the Children in two rows along the Village Gate; and as the Women, bearing the Bier, passed through with Sister Fanny, the Children broke out with a soft and heart-subduing rendering of "There is a Happy Land," and then fell in behind the Coffin with Lady Hetty at their head, and the Men bringing up the rear, but still singing all their best known Hymns, one after the other, till they reached the Grave. She was borne to Zion with songs of praise!

Every Woman, then, who was able, had her turn at bearing the end of one or other of the Bier Staves, for a little distance, on that pilgrimage of tears and love. Around the Grave, Lady Hetty once more ranged her Choir of Children, as a Guard of Honour on either side. And first, they sang-"There's a Friend for little Children," each, as they sang, dropping in the favourite flower, or leaf, or fruit, they had borne in the Procession. Then the bigger Lads and Girls drew near, and then the Women and the Men, some dropping in a flower, but most dropping un

bidden tears on the Coffin of Sister Fanny; until her Grave, instead of being cold and clammy and dismal, became beautiful with bloom and leaf and fruit, all sparkling with tear-drops as with dew.

When, at last, the Grave Digger had finished his task, and smoothed gently the sod that covered all that remained on Earth of Sister Fanny, the Choir of Children, again led by Lady Hetty, struck up— "How bright these glorious Spirits shine! Whence all their white array? How came they to the blissful seats Of everlasting Day?" And so on they sang to the close-"'Mong Pastures green He'll lead His Flock, Where living streams appear; And God the Lord from every eye Shall wipe off every tear!"

The People of Castlebraes, as they dispersed to their several Homes, very thoughtful and very silent, might be heard whispering to each other

"The Spirit of Sister Fanny lives in Lady Hetty."

The years are growing dim and dimmer around me since that pathetic day. But I can never forget the most memorable Funeral I ever saw. And, whenever I enter the Auld Kirk Yaird o' Castlebraes, I find my way involuntarily, but inevitably, to a little white Marble Cross,-a Monument erected by Lady Hetty, with the assistance of One Penny, each, from all who had ever attended The Bairns' Kirk at Castlebraes,-on which are inscribed these words, and nothing more:

SISTER FANNY.

O Woman Greatly Beloved!